


Normality

by Philip_The_Poet



Series: So Artfully Instilled [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Depression, Jemmy's just a sad bean, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, but the ending is cute!, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 19:25:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11088321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philip_The_Poet/pseuds/Philip_The_Poet
Summary: James Madison can't exactly do anything to cure his depression, per se, but there are some bright spots in his life.





	Normality

**Author's Note:**

> SO you don't have to read the rest of this series to understand this, but if you haven't and you like this, I'd love to see you on my chapter fics, too! Jemmy is my lifeblood, so I figured my first So Artfully Instilled one shot-sorta-fic should be his.

James Madison hadn't felt normal in a long time.

A long, long time.

Of course, such a statement would require a definition of what normal felt like. Maybe normal was like how the sun rises and sets each day; maybe normal was like the feeling of knowing what to say and do and expect. Predictability. Something to feel certain about day-to-day, and that something being everything. And not in a monotonous way, either, but in a stable way.

Maybe normality is predictable stability that is comfortably average.

At least, this was the definition James had considered when he made the observation that he had forgotten what such a thing felt like. And as for reasons?

... Reasons.

It wasn't necessarily James's fault he felt so abnormal— this was what he had been told and this was what he believed. Because it was true— it wasn't his fault. It _wasn't_.

But blame (or the lack thereof) did little to quell whatever suffering James did endure.

After all, whether or not he was at fault had nothing to do with the fact that he _was_ depressed.

There.

He wasn't ashamed.

He wasn't afraid.

He didn't care if everyone knew.

He didn't care.

And, if any of those statements were true, what a wonderful world this would be.

James probably hadn't felt normal in so long because, well, he was not. He was not normal and he was completely aware of it— if he hadn't figured it out, there was always something there to remind him. If he began to forget, there was always someone there to remind him.

He was sickly.

He was small.

He was weak.

He was awkward.

He was quiet.

And he was _utterly worthless_.

There were the people in his life who told him this wasn't true, this couldn't possibly be true. His parents— simultaneously supportive and clueless. His friends who didn't know him as well— Burr, who would offer James a comforting smile on a rough day; Eliza, who would ask him how he felt and compliment his handwriting; sometimes Hamilton, who would see him and make some comment on his intelligence that was surprisingly praising. Anyone he was told to speak to about how he felt. They all said the same.

_It isn't your fault._

_You aren't sickly._

_You're getting healthier._

_You're strong._

_You're charming._

_You're funny, you tell good jokes._

_You are not worthless._

_You mean so much to me._

_Don't forget how much I care about you._

_You are not worthless._

_You are not worthless._

_You are not worthless._

Well, sure, these were all nice in theory. But they were never going to do James much good when it came to actually physically dragging himself out of bed some mornings, and they were never going to do James much good when they only seemed to come at times when they were said like this was just what James needed to hear. And besides that, there was the constant stream of contradiction these sentiments faced. Indeed, they were far from unalterable, especially considering those who failed to notice or failed to care about why James was the way he was. People like Charles Lee, for example, or George Eacker, or James Monroe; the people who fell into one of two categories: they either didn't care or they didn't understand.

Madison couldn't quite decide which was worse.

Granted, James wasn't always miserable. He had days— increasingly often, in fact —where things seemed to be going his way, and where everything seemed to be going just fine. These days saw James fitter than usual; smiling and joking and laughing and _living_ much better than he usually did. Maybe these days were what provoked people to believe they had the right to mock him for the other ones, the ones when he couldn't manage to get out of bed without relentless encouragement and the ones when he seemed unable to open his mouth (or close his eyes).

They did, though. They did have the right.

After all, they weren't wrong when they called him withered or ill. He _was_.

He was sickly.

He was small.

He was weak.

He was awkward.

He was quiet.

And he was _utterly worthless_.

Somehow, James always circled back to this. He'd travel the wide, wide world of any thought he could dream to think, he'd take himself places he'd never been before and could never go, and he'd always come back to this.

The realization that he was worth absolutely nothing.

It didn't sting as much as it used to. At the very beginning, James had felt this assurance hit him like a pile of bricks. (That is, if he knew what being hit with a pile of bricks felt like. Although he imagined it felt something like this, and he wasn't always averse to finding out.) These days, he just accepted it. No one could dissuade him, and even temporary reprieves were just that— temporary. Bitterly, awfully, painfully, predictably temporary.

Then he just went back to accepting the truth.

This was his normal. And it was not normal at all.

Was it?

Was it normal to lie awake, knowing nothing has its eyes on you? Was it normal to see friends and know they never felt the same way about you? Was it normal to take criticism by just forcing it even harder at yourself? Was it normal to be tired, nothing but tired, all the time?

James didn't know, simply because no one had ever told him.

And yet, he wanted so badly to just be normal.

He figured, at a certain point, that this is only because almost everyone wants to be normal. At such a vulnerable age, everyone wants to be normal and fit in and feel _right_. Everyone wants this idea, this concept, this utopia of normality, and they don't even understand what it is. They laughed and they cried and they broke and they made their mistakes and it was all just to fit in to a standard that did not exist within the realm of definition.

Regardless. These observations didn't mean James wanted it any less.

Because he was insecure, whether he liked it or not; he was insecure and he was exhausted. Exhausted from life and from effort and from brainpower and from willpower and from _lack_ of power. And he could wish all he wanted to feel normal, he'd still only be worthless. He was always just worthless.

He was sickly.

He was small.

He was weak.

He was awkward.

He was quiet.

And he was _utterly worthless._

This was what most people said. This was what James said to himself. This was what was true. This was what was known.

This was what was his normal, and he had come to terms with it.

Sometimes it seemed Thomas Jefferson was the one person on earth still in denial about it.

James had trouble understanding it— even after so many years of Thomas blatantly refuting even the most obviously correct of criticisms, James just couldn't wrap his head around why Thomas was so infinitely opposed to the truth about him. If Madison himself didn't have a problem with admitting he was worthless, why should Jefferson? James just couldn't seem to understand it.

James could never understand it.

But, for better or worse, he enjoyed it when Thomas would praise him or compliment him or dote on him or flatter him. He enjoyed it when Thomas would attempt to disprove the simple facts about James (his sickliness and smallness and weakness and awkwardness and quietness and worthlessness). He enjoyed the poorly-masked hero-worship Thomas would endlessly express for him.

But James could never understand it.

Perhaps that's why he put it off for so long. There were multiple reasons, of course, but this was the main one— James realized at a certain point that he was, in simple terms, falling for Thomas. He also realized several quintessential conditions that may or may not have made this just a _bit_ more difficult than it should have been:

He was incredibly socially anxious.

He was incredibly socially awkward.

He was incredibly certain that someone like Thomas could not possibly reciprocate these feelings for someone like James.

And on top of all that, he was ashamed.

He was afraid.

He cared if everyone knew.

He cared.

Plus, it wouldn't be fair to Thomas to tie him down when James himself was so painfully unstable. What would it do to Thomas to date someone as insecure and useless as James?

Well, evidently, these complications didn't matter, because shortly after Madison realized his own feelings he found himself caught in the sticky situation of being asked out by the very object of his attraction.

James would never understand it.

But like _hell_ he said yes.

Of course, James would never be completely free of whatever ailments his mind was doomed to suffer. He took his meds and accepted whatever support he received, and he was going to be fine. But that didn't change the fact that when he was with Thomas, he was more than fine. For better or worse, he enjoyed it when Thomas would kiss him or hold all one-hundred odd pounds of him or stay over just to make sure he fell asleep and got up in the morning or said he loved James. He enjoyed it when Thomas would attempt to disprove the simple facts about James:

He was sickly.

He was small.

He was weak.

He was awkward.

He was quiet.

All this was true. But at least for a moment, Thomas could always make these truths lose their meaning and become, themselves, utterly worthless.

At least for a moment, Thomas could always make James forget about wanting to achieve whatever twisted normality everyone else wanted to reach and focus on just how much he wanted Thomas to be his normal, his everyday, his predictable stability, his comfortable constant in this hurricane of a life.

If Thomas by his side was the only normal James was ever going to know, then that would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I admit shamelessly that I live for comments and kudos, and I'd love to hear from you! <3


End file.
